Darling

The days fall out of your pockets one after the other.

Soon you'll need a new jacket with tougher leather

and seams no one has felt. Soon you'll bring

the old books into your bed and sleep easy

and alone. It must be December again.

This must be the part of the story where you

refuse to say how the bodies you've walked toward

continue walking in you. With heavy black boots

in a calm procession of darling and honey —

they walk up and down the narrow streets of your heart.

by Alex Dimitrov

My bookcase © Jennifer Phillips